


the bees remember

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beekeeping, Bees, Funerals, Gen, M/M, Retirement, Retirement!lock, Retirementlock, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:12:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1601120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He goes out to the hives in the late afternoon, holding one of Sherlock’s scarves in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bees remember

**Author's Note:**

> I have tagged this for major character death, but it's off-screen and before the beginning of the story, and it's at the end of a long and happy life. If that helps? I dunno. Still, it's not a very happy story. 
> 
> Anyway. I wrote this earlier this week for a picture on tumblr, which can be found [here](http://belovedmuerto.tumblr.com/post/85339026629/belovedmuerto-bandersnatchmycummerbund).

He goes out to the hives in the late afternoon, holding one of Sherlock’s scarves in his hands. It’s not black, but it’s close enough, and he thinks they’ll understand. Well, if bees can understand this sort of thing. But Sherlock had wanted him to do this, so he shall. It hadn’t been his last request, but close to it. John will endeavor to fulfill all of the things Sherlock had asked for as he slipped away.

He drapes the scarf over the hive and stays there for a long time, as the sun disappears and the air grows cool.

“He’s gone,” John says softly, as the last light of the day dies. He turns with half-remembered military precision, and walks slowly back up to the cottage, the quiet hum of the hives lingering in his ears, a whisper of comfort.

\----

When he goes to bed that night, he still feels Sherlock next to him, his curls tickling John’s nose. 

He only sleeps because of the sedative.

\----

The funeral service is a blur, but John remembers the short ceremony at the grave vividly. He arrives with the few other mourners, walking in slow procession towards the small tent on the cliffside where Sherlock’s body will be laid to rest. Most of their friends are dead; no one had believed Sherlock and John of all people would outlive almost everyone who cared about them. But they had, slipping far more easily than either of them ever expected into retirement; John into his writing and Sherlock into his beekeeping and gardening. John still can’t quite believe that he’s the one who’s left. Perhaps in time it will sink in.

The other mourners are mostly people from the village. Their neighbors, and people that Sherlock had helped, even in retirement. People who mourn the loss of his honey and his acerbic wit, not the man himself. John hates them all. 

John doesn’t hear the minister speaking. All he can hear, all he can see beyond the coffin and the profusion of flowers that cover it, are the bees.

They bees are there, in the tent, in the flowers, humming quietly, not disturbing an of the people who gather in the shade.

A few people whisper, pointing and nervous, but John finds his first smile in days when he sees them. The bees are there, and it feels like Sherlock is standing over his shoulder, recounting the tradition of telling the bees to him again, one hand on his shoulder in comfort.

\----

The house is far too quiet without Sherlock in it. John aches with emptiness, and he wants to escape, he wants nothing else but to escape.

There are things to do, though. Things he needs to do.

He slips into the overalls with the difficulty of stiff joints and aching muscles. He hasn’t done much since Sherlock’s funeral, and he knows that if he doesn’t move again he will waste away. Sherlock wouldn’t be pleased with him, if he does that.

So he struggles into the overalls, the gloves, the hat, the veil. It is spring and the weather is fine. The bees buzz throughout the garden that is just starting to bloom, and John walks slowly through it, carrying the smoker.

The scarf he’d laid over the one hive is still there, fluttering in the breeze, and the quiet hum of the bees is comforting, along with the faintest hint of Sherlock’s scent, floating around him in the sunshine.

“Well, bees,” John says, squaring his shoulders. “Looks like it’s just you and me, now.”

All around him, the bees hum.


End file.
